men’s dirt and men’s noises. Without women, Peter Marlowe thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke. And he bled in the starch of the sun.
“Hey Peter!” The King was looking up the slope, his mouth agape.
Peter Marlowe followed the King’s gaze and his stomach turned over as he saw Sean approaching. “Christ!” He wanted to slip through the window out of sight, but he knew that that would make him more conspicuous. So he waited grimly, hardly breathing. He thought he had a good chance of not being seen, for Sean was deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Rodrick and Lieutenant Frank Parrish. Their heads were close together and their voices intent.
Then Sean glanced past Frank Parrish and saw Peter Marlowe and stopped.
Rodrick and Frank stopped also, surprised. When they saw Peter Marlowe they thought, Oh my God. But they concealed their anxiety.
“Hello, Peter,” Rodrick called out. He was a tall neat man with a chiseled face, as tall and neat as Frank Parrish was tall and careless.
“Hello, Rod!” Peter Marlowe called back.
“I won’t be a moment,” Sean said quietly to Rodrick and walked towards Peter Marlowe and the King. Now that the first shock had worn off, Sean smiled a welcome.
Peter Marlowe felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise and he got up and waited. He could feel the King’s eyes boring into him.
“Hello, Peter,” Sean said.
“Hello, Sean.”
“You’re so thin, Peter.”
“Oh I don’t know. No more than anyone. I’m very fit, thanks.”
“I haven’t seen you for such a long time — why don’t you come up to the theater sometime? There’s always a little extra around somewhere — and you know me, I never did eat much.” Sean smiled hopefully.
“Thanks,” Peter Marlowe said, raw with embarrassment.
“Well, I know you won’t,” Sean said unhappily, “but you’re always welcome.” There was a pause. “I never see you any more.”
“Oh, you know how it is, Sean. You’re doing all the shows and I’m, well, I’m on work parties and things.”
Like Peter Marlowe, Sean was wearing a sarong, but unlike Peter Marlowe’s, which was threadbare and multifaded color, Sean’s was new and white and the border was embroidered with blue and silver. And Sean wore a short-sleeved native baju coat, ending above the waist, cut tight to allow for the swell of breasts. The King was staring fascinated at the half-opened neck of the baju.
Sean noticed the King and smiled faintly and brushed back some hair that the wind had caressed out of place and toyed with it until the King looked up. Sean smiled inside, warmed inside, as the King flushed.
“It’s, er, it’s getting hot, isn’t it?” the King said uncomfortably.
“I suppose so,” Sean said pleasantly, cool and sweatless, as always — however intense the heat.
There was a silence.
“Oh, sorry,” Peter Marlowe said as he saw Sean looking at the King and waiting patiently. “Do you know —“
Sean laughed. “My God, Peter. You are in a state. Of course I know who your friend is, though we’ve never met.” Sean put out a hand. “How are you? It’s quite an honor to meet a King!”
“Er, thanks,” the King said, hardly touching the hand, so small against his. “You, er, like a smoke?”
“Thanks, but I don’t. But if you don’t mind I will take one. In fact two, if it’s all right?” Sean nodded back towards the path. “Rod and Frank smoke and I know they’d appreciate one.”
“Sure,” the King said. “Sure.”
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
In spite of himself the King felt the warmth of Sean’s smile. In spite of himself he said, meaning it, “You were great in Othello.”
“Thank you,” said Sean delightedly. “Did you like Hamlet?”
“Yes. And I never was much on Shakespeare.”
Sean laughed. “That’s praise indeed. We’re doing a new play next. Frank has written it especially and it should be a lot of fun.”
“If it’s just ordinary, it’ll
“Hey Peter!” The King was looking up the slope, his mouth agape.
Peter Marlowe followed the King’s gaze and his stomach turned over as he saw Sean approaching. “Christ!” He wanted to slip through the window out of sight, but he knew that that would make him more conspicuous. So he waited grimly, hardly breathing. He thought he had a good chance of not being seen, for Sean was deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Rodrick and Lieutenant Frank Parrish. Their heads were close together and their voices intent.
Then Sean glanced past Frank Parrish and saw Peter Marlowe and stopped.
Rodrick and Frank stopped also, surprised. When they saw Peter Marlowe they thought, Oh my God. But they concealed their anxiety.
“Hello, Peter,” Rodrick called out. He was a tall neat man with a chiseled face, as tall and neat as Frank Parrish was tall and careless.
“Hello, Rod!” Peter Marlowe called back.
“I won’t be a moment,” Sean said quietly to Rodrick and walked towards Peter Marlowe and the King. Now that the first shock had worn off, Sean smiled a welcome.
Peter Marlowe felt the hackles on his neck begin to rise and he got up and waited. He could feel the King’s eyes boring into him.
“Hello, Peter,” Sean said.
“Hello, Sean.”
“You’re so thin, Peter.”
“Oh I don’t know. No more than anyone. I’m very fit, thanks.”
“I haven’t seen you for such a long time — why don’t you come up to the theater sometime? There’s always a little extra around somewhere — and you know me, I never did eat much.” Sean smiled hopefully.
“Thanks,” Peter Marlowe said, raw with embarrassment.
“Well, I know you won’t,” Sean said unhappily, “but you’re always welcome.” There was a pause. “I never see you any more.”
“Oh, you know how it is, Sean. You’re doing all the shows and I’m, well, I’m on work parties and things.”
Like Peter Marlowe, Sean was wearing a sarong, but unlike Peter Marlowe’s, which was threadbare and multifaded color, Sean’s was new and white and the border was embroidered with blue and silver. And Sean wore a short-sleeved native baju coat, ending above the waist, cut tight to allow for the swell of breasts. The King was staring fascinated at the half-opened neck of the baju.
Sean noticed the King and smiled faintly and brushed back some hair that the wind had caressed out of place and toyed with it until the King looked up. Sean smiled inside, warmed inside, as the King flushed.
“It’s, er, it’s getting hot, isn’t it?” the King said uncomfortably.
“I suppose so,” Sean said pleasantly, cool and sweatless, as always — however intense the heat.
There was a silence.
“Oh, sorry,” Peter Marlowe said as he saw Sean looking at the King and waiting patiently. “Do you know —“
Sean laughed. “My God, Peter. You are in a state. Of course I know who your friend is, though we’ve never met.” Sean put out a hand. “How are you? It’s quite an honor to meet a King!”
“Er, thanks,” the King said, hardly touching the hand, so small against his. “You, er, like a smoke?”
“Thanks, but I don’t. But if you don’t mind I will take one. In fact two, if it’s all right?” Sean nodded back towards the path. “Rod and Frank smoke and I know they’d appreciate one.”
“Sure,” the King said. “Sure.”
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
In spite of himself the King felt the warmth of Sean’s smile. In spite of himself he said, meaning it, “You were great in Othello.”
“Thank you,” said Sean delightedly. “Did you like Hamlet?”
“Yes. And I never was much on Shakespeare.”
Sean laughed. “That’s praise indeed. We’re doing a new play next. Frank has written it especially and it should be a lot of fun.”
“If it’s just ordinary, it’ll
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